


In Close Proximity

by KJGooding



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Cardassia, Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17040434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJGooding/pseuds/KJGooding
Summary: Elim relies on Julian for help in rebuilding his planet, his home.  The only trouble is Julian is still on Deep Space Nine, struggling to put together a family of his own, feeling neglected and abandoned.  Even with the help of Doctor Kelas Parmak, Elim does not acknowledge any of these problems for many years.





	In Close Proximity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Safe Ones, Vanquished Ones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15655593) by [KJGooding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJGooding/pseuds/KJGooding). 



> This piece inspired my much longer work, 'Safe Ones, Vanquished Ones.' If you enjoy, I hope you'll check that out, as well :)
> 
> Thank you! This zine was lots of fun!

_Rekess_ _Ancestral Home  
_ _2394_  

"And when, precisely, did you plan to tell me about this, Elim?" Doctor Parmak asked, in a troubled voice.  "I don't mean to sound unkind, but it's very important you are forward with me, now."

Garak cast his eyes downward out of habit, even though Parmak had long since forgiven the events that transpired in the interrogation cell where they first met, decades prior.  Back then, Garak had forced a confession out of him in complete silence, and sent him to a labor camp over crimes which were never verified. But Parmak remained steadfast and compassionate through this, and through his renewed association with Garak, ever since the Dominion withdrawal.

It had been eighteen years.  They lived together for most of it, and learned to accept one another's intricacies in favor of the common good.  They often debated but rarely argued, leaving Parmak unsure of how to carry himself, now.

"I couldn't tell you," Garak admitted.  "Ah, _when_ , I mean.  I don’t know _when_ I planned to tell you.  I did not know myself."

"Elim," Parmak said solemnly, choosing to believe him for the time being.

He met Garak in the living room, where he had been sitting and staring absently through the window, at his garden.  It was impeccably kept, and certainly a spectacle worthy of attention.

Parmak took hold of the seat beside him, pulling it in close before sitting down on it, facing him.

"It took all these years of observation to put it together," Garak said, laughing dryly to himself.

This was all Parmak needed to take pity; he softened his voice immediately.  He reached down and between them, patting Garak's knee.

"Let me make us some tea," Parmak said.  "I have a feeling it will be a long night."

"Something strong," Garak called after him.

Unwilling, as usual, to leave Garak alone for the entire duration, Parmak returned once the water had boiled, and again as he allowed their blends to steep, glancing at Garak until he was caught and then scurrying away again.  When unsupervised, Garak was more prone to hallucinating, and these visions caused him a great deal of distress. He was aware of them - and so was Parmak, who provided a full range of homeopathy and formal medicine - but found nothing effective.

The truth, as the two had only just uncovered, was that Garak did not want the treatment.  Some not-so-small part of him enjoyed the escapism, and the players he cast inside his scenes, and did not want them to come to an end, no matter how they pained him.  His years of intense mental training had inverted themselves and formed a barricade, and Garak simply did not want to pass through it, even though he held the key.

Parmak returned with a cup of tea in each hand, darkly-brewed as Garak requested.

"Now," Parmak said, gentle and slow, "let us talk through this: this thing it's taken two physicians, a joined Trill counselor, and fifteen-odd years of relapses to work out..."

"You must make it sound more sentimental than that," Garak teased, "that can be the only cause.  And you are so adept at that, usually."

"Fine, then," Parmak amended, "this _horrid_ thing you could have only done for love."

"Much better."

***

The visions had been nearly constant, when Garak first left Deep Space Nine and arrived on Cardassia.  They shook him, physically, and dictated all of his actions. It was not his fault, then, because he genuinely could not discern them from reality; how could he, when his loved ones screamed for help in both settings?  If he slept or woke or imagined or experienced, it was all the same. Buildings crumbled and bodies burned, until he could not tell one blow from the next. The parade of it was constant, and he was helpless.

To alleviate the overwhelming shame, he holed himself up in his father's garden shed, writing feverishly and forwarding his life's story to Doctor Bashir.  Cardassian truth was based in perception, so when he received a polite and moving reply from Bashir some months later, when the dust-riddled electronics were working consistently again, he did not believe it, because he had already conveniently - hopelessly - invented himself a vision of Bashir.

It followed him everywhere, its once-youthful features becoming increasingly dull in the face of tragedy.  Without fail, it aided Garak in providing medical care, before his work became strictly funerary. It walked him out of dark rooms and sat beside him when he tried to fall asleep on a stack of mats in the dirt, and it stood in the doorway Garak refused to seal, simultaneously afraid and hopeful that someone would step through the breach and kill him in his sleep.  In a way, it grounded him, but not to reality; it tethered him to a single cloud in the neverending haze.

He spoke to it quietly, dismissed the communique Bashir had actually sent, and did all he could to better their lives.  The first major step was seeking permanent residence with Doctor Parmak, who led the volunteer relief team Garak had found himself assigned to.  They lived among patients and then corpses at the Unit, but it was still a notable improvement from the tiny garden shed. Eventually, foreign aid efforts culminated in the construction of a block of temporary apartments, which Parmak and Garak were granted access to without question, based on merit.  They were allotted two adjoining rooms - Doctor Bashir, the real one, played a role in securing these, as he knew Garak would find a single room much too restrictive. Garak kept the adjoining door open as often as possible.

So then, when he spoke _to_ the Bashir he envisioned, he often had an audience, and an influence; in Parmak's company, the vision was scientific and sympathetic, and only brash when it was convinced it was right about something.  Very much like Parmak, so much that it even averted its gaze when Garak tried to look at it, although it would blush and flutter its hand, while Parmak tended to step out of the room entirely.

"Did I tell you what Doctor Bashir said, the other day?" Garak asked, on one occasion, when they were newly unpacked and sitting down on the floor for their dinner.  

Parmak had made several good-natured complaints about his joints, but ultimately took his place beside Garak on the mats they set up.

"I don't believe so.  Has he written?"

Garak made a vague, dismissive gesture with one hand before he spoke.

"He said the damage is 'no worse than on Bajor,' and he expected me to feel good about that."

"Well, it isn't," Parmak said, having lived through three years in a Bajoran labor camp as his punishment.  "Perhaps he meant to say it can all be fixed with a few more years of work, if we all put our hearts into it.  I'd say that's right, wouldn't you?"

"No," Garak said, directly, although he was not sure if he felt this way or not.  "He has not met the new Council."

"I would tell you again to submit your name--"

"And I yours."

"--but I would not want to risk stressing you any further."

This earned a sarcastic huff from Garak, making an attempt to signify that no further damage could be done.  From the other side of their little improvised table, also made of cushions, the Bashir sighed and took out its handheld scanner, leaning in to press it to Garak's temple.  It made a note of his vitals and then, as it pulled away the scanner, it kissed Garak in the same place, its lips feeling dry and chapped against the flared veins on Garak's forehead.  What was Bashir playing at, Garak thought, with behavior like that?

"That's quite enough," Garak said, trying to keep his voice kind.

Parmak turned to glance at him, nodding despite the lagging recognition.  In this moment, he resolved to write to Doctor Bashir himself - Garak discussed him so personally, sometimes - to fill in whatever gaps he could.  This behavior in Garak was not unusual on its own, and his predisposition to headaches and hallucinations was well-known and monitored, but Parmak needed to feel _sure_ he was not failing his companion.  Not _now_ , when he was left so precarious.  The physical work had been done, to Garak and to Cardassia, but the mental hurdle remained

***

When Garak did, after another year of sizzling tension within the Council, consider submitting his name to a leadership role, he began to spend more time working with his peers.  Before, his only companions had been Parmak, the imagined Bashir, and the younger, heart-achingly innocent faces he hauled out of the rubble.

But then, he became reacquainted with one Pythas Lok, a former classmate of his, a notoriously quiet and well-connected man who served alongside him - and then above him - in the Order.  Lok returned home to Prime, as many did, with his fair share of battle scars. One side of his face had been badly burned and infected, making it difficult for him to speak verbally, and to express himself physically; Garak struggled to communicate with him in the way he was accustomed to.  

Prior to the formal sessions, they would meet privately in Lok's assigned housing, several blocks away from Garak's, and they would discuss the old days.  Despite the injuries, Garak could not help but see Lok in his former glory, age-lines and purple scars meticulously removed based on memory. The envisioned Bashir benefited from these procedures, too, and Garak delighted in watching the glimmer return to its eye, and the adventurous anticipation return to its fingers, as it drummed them along the desk.  It watched them without speaking.

"They mean to enforce voting districts," Lok was saying.

Garak looked to Bashir, who was making a satisfied expression but keeping its lips sealed.

"Yes, the Federation tried that immediately, then so did Bajor.  It only makes sense for them to try again."

"I meant," Lok went on, "what do you think of it?"

"Of course, forgive me," Garak said, having misread the functioning half of Lok's facial features.  "I think they _know_ we have tried it before, centuries ago, and found the entire democratic process tedious."

"They do tout it as 'traditional,'" Lok said.

"I can understand why," Garak took his cue from the soft nod Bashir gave him, shielding its cheek with one hand, making the gesture _their secret._ "What more do we have, beyond tradition?  We have stone buildings and plagues, and more dust than anyone should ever see, let alone breathe.  We have access to our libraries, and to housing, and to courtrooms. I do not know what else we _could_ build from that.  Why, would you favor a sole entity?"

"I would favor _you_ as a sole entity."

Lok indicated a page he was reading about the Castellany Period.

"You can't be serious," Garak said.  "That was a single _household_.  And rife with favoritism and bias, as you have suffered firsthand.  Or perhaps _enjoyed_ is more accurate."

With difficulty, Lok raised his brow-ridges; Garak was referring to his brief tenure as head of the Obsidian Order, granted at Tain's request, his first choice.  Over Garak, naturally.

"I was submitting _your name_."

Bashir's image grew cloudy, and Garak rubbed his eyes in a compulsion to restore it, but it aged and scarred and withered, and he swallowed around a gasp that manifested in his throat.

"I did not mean it like that," Garak mumbled, disappointed in himself.  "Pythas... my dear... my dear old friend. I meant nothing slanderous by it."

Lok was quiet again, for a longer period than usual.  His working eye flicked attentively from Garak to the table to his stack of notes, which were copied out on synthetic paper.  Tradition indeed, Garak thought, as he watched him.

"In the hands of the _correct_ household," Lok said carefully, "I would see it almost as calming, and I suspect many constituents would agree.  There are too few of us to vote, each with a different opinion. I believe we would feel better in the hands of an experienced single entity, and I called you here today to ask permission to sponsor you in my district, as well as your own."

"More words than you've ever said in a single sitting," Garak remarked, to distract himself.  Bashir twitched in its seat, a hundred years older, and Garak felt nervous. "You can have my permission, whatever it is worth; my physicians will not consent to it, I am confident."

"I did not know you were still unwell."

"Prevailingly," said Garak.

Lok hung his head sadly, and the two of them continued to consider one another charitable, pitiful, for a long while afterward.

***

Garak called the changes within his and Parmak's dynamic 'inevitable.'  

One day, he had given himself a minor wound while tinkering with the inner workings of their household computer.  Parmak dressed the little scrape he earned on his wrist, where the flesh was soft and unarmored, and then Parmak failed to resist the urge to kiss it.  The place was intimate, solely because it was sensitive; Parmak immediately apologized, and dabbed over it again with a disinfectant.

"I don't mind," Garak said.  "In fact I have... always found myself intrigued by the unique compassion of physicians."

"Have you, indeed?" Parmak chuckled, squeezing Garak's wrist to signify his work was through.

"I have, yes, because I always, somehow, find myself on the receiving end of it."

"You were being a fool, Elim," Parmak said, lovingly.  "Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't get a shock, as well."

Garak shrugged, knowing he was not making the best choice of words.

"That might've kept you fussing over me for weeks, hovering at my bedside..."

The image of Bashir rushed in to join them, appearing from Garak's private side of the adjoining room; the computer terminal was affixed to the central wall.  The spectre kept a respectful distance, watching Parmak work. Under Bashir's image, Garak found himself grinning sheepishly, staring up at Parmak as they broke apart.

"I do not mean to call you a nuisance," Garak clarified.

"That was not my impression," Parmak said with a blush.

"Oh?"

"It sounded, to me, like you were about to bring me to bed with you."

Garak glanced sideways at the Bashir - it was perched just behind Parmak's shoulder, out of reach - and noticed it, too, was blushing hotly, and nodding its head.

"Now, as a rule," Garak replied, "I am learning to take my words at face value."

"I'd heard.  Something about running for office."

"I hope it does not come to that."

"But it _does_ make you a better man."

Garak was almost physically aware of the way he was swooning, especially when Bashir leaned in to catch his shoulder, stopping him from falling onto the tile floor.

"No," Garak said, tutting his tongue, looking softly into Bashir's eyes, then Parmak's, " _you_ do." 

***

The rising tension within the Council eventually forced Garak to spend time with Gul Madred, which he loathed every second of.  Madred agreed on the merit of a singular leadership unit, but remained convinced it should be the military. On such days, the Bashir stared across the table at Garak with its hands propped up in front of its face.  It became a commander, with a phaser on its belt, a sick gleam in its eyes, and lips that remained parted in a scent-taste search for blood. Garak did not like it; it made him impulsive and argumentative.

But then, one day, the council fell into argument, all of Garak's associates shouting over one another, and it left the vision of Bashir frantic.  Garak watched it pace across the floor of the courtroom, clutching its head in its hands and muttering to itself.

Professor Lang stood and waited for silence before announcing her position.

"It has worked for centuries on Bajor.  I _understand_ there is an additional religious component, but the history and record is the same.  A single leader, supported by their council, and if Mister Garak would--"

" _Again_ about Bajor," Madred lamented, but Bashir did not seem bothered, until Madred jabbed one finger at Garak, "And again about _that_ traitor."

Bashir crossed its arms and approached Madred, and Garak feared for its safety.  In that moment, his throat and heart clenched together, tight and nervous, and he stood.  He whispered for Bashir's attention, saying its given name in a low volume his fellow Cardassians would not properly hear.  

The image's gaze softened, and it stepped up to Garak's level of the balcony, where he usually sat with his head buried in his notes so no one would disturb him.  Then Bashir leaned against the countertop, and it reached out to touch Garak's hand encouragingly, on the other side.

"I concede," he said, taking Bashir's hand for the first time, clinging to it.

The room went quiet, and Bashir smiled at him, but then it disappeared.

When he went home, he did not know how to explain himself.  Had he been petty like Madred, or thoughtful like Lang, or resilient like Lok?  He had expected, _wanted_ , to see Bashir pleased with him, so why had it left the room?

Parmak was slow and gentle with him, but did not press the issue too much, having already agreed Garak could be up for the task, if he took better care of himself.

"You seem agitated," Parmak said, after Garak refused his suggestions of a meal, a bath, and an early trip to bed.

"I seem that way, hmm?"

"Did Julian say something about it to you?" Parmak asked, assuming Garak had been made aware - as he had, that morning - of Bashir's wedding, _that day_ , to Ezri Dax; Parmak had not yet worked out Garak's past involvement with Bashir in any great detail, but he could see why Garak might find the untimely news troubling.  

"Oh, yes.  I hate to think how profoundly I must've disappointed him."

"Elim..." Parmak said, heart springing forward in his chest.

When Garak felt the embrace, it was from both Parmak and the image of Bashir, their arms warm and strong and not-too-tight around him.  Parmak took Garak to his bedroom, depositing him carefully in bed, sitting beside him until Garak finally succumbed to sleep.

Finally, Parmak wrote urgently to Bashir, leaving a message he would read in the shuttle between his wedding ceremony and honeymoon.  Parmak composed this on his own padd and sent it onward from the security of his armchair, perpetually stationed at Garak's bedside.

Only several restless hours later, Parmak was surprised to hear the main household computer signalling reception of a reply, secured on Federation channels Parmak's padd could not access.

He ensured Garak was soundly asleep while he went out into the kitchen to read it, pleading with the computer to stay quiet.

_It sounds like you are aware of his past, enough._

_The hallucinations have not proven dangerous, in my experience - they generally occur while he is confined, and he can be talked out of them if you're patient and repetitive, and can remain calm with him.  He would do well with a heated blanket and rest._

_Has he been working in the collapsed ruins all this time?  I am sure that's what's caused it._

Parmak frowned, typed back his negations - Garak had been confined only to Council meetings, as of late - and then sent them on, immediately scolding himself for interrupting.  But perhaps, he reminded himself, Bashir would not have replied at all, on such a noteworthy and understandably distracting occasion, if he was not so taken with ensuring Garak was well.

With the piece sent, he turned to leave, but the computer screen flashed at him, recalling his attention.

_There are still 40 unread communications from Bashir, J.S..  Do you wish to continue?_

"Continue with what," Parmak muttered flatly to himself, "poor dust-riddled thing--"

But he stopped his derision, upon realizing the record was entirely correct.  Each was addressed to Garak, unopened.

This was a heavy secret to bear, and Garak was fragile, so Parmak carried it for him.

He wrote to Bashir two additional times that night, and received eloquent, fully-cited replies the following morning.  They carried on this way for a long while, with Bashir's insight gradually blending with Counselor Dax's, until it had been replaced entirely.

***

Garak's personal image of Bashir underwent a similar change.  In a way, it became consistent and steady, always quiet and withdrawn, shy and private.  Garak began to resent it for nonexistent trespasses, feeling Bashir had deserted him when the opposite was more correct.  Worst of all, he knew it was fantasy, an indulgence that benefited no one.

He had thrown all of his energy and passion into the Castellany, bringing Cardassia to great strength, crippling himself beneath it.  

"An imagined lover," Garak said to Parmak one day, closing the case Parmak had been slowly building, "as frivolous and self-serving as the rest of _this_."

Garak spat and gestured to the ceiling above them, in the ancestral castle they had relocated to for the duration of Garak's term, however long it would last.  

"Oh, Elim," Parmak replied, gently, "I don’t believe you've been self-serving a day in your life."

Garak did not agree, but tried, for Parmak's sake.  He listened patiently as Parmak showed him the collection of letters, worked with him through almost two decades of diagnosis and personal growth.  He learned about Bashir’s marriage and children and mutual separation, and he finally managed to feel better.

***

They were determined to stay awake through their recollections; Bashir was due to arrive before the night was through.  

"Have you managed to tell him?" Parmak asked carefully.

By now, he had finished his tea, and was resting the empty cup on his knee to soothe an ache.

"I almost told the mirage of him," Garak remarked.  "But failed to manage even that. I have told no one.  I am sworn honesty and openness to my State, and I have not told a soul."

"I'd worked it out myself, Elim, if it is any consolation.  Between the way you spoke about Bashir, and the way I spoke _to_ him."  

"That's right, of course.  I owe you a great deal for what you have arranged.  I am... so much better off..."

"You are, but you still refused treatment."

Garak nodded, accepting genuine guilt on top of the store he always maintained artificially.

"Yes.  I didn't want to lose him."

"Lose him?"

"He had disappeared for some weeks already.  Around the time of his marriage, in fact."

"Your bond is profound, Elim."  Parmak looked thoughtful, "And now you have gained him."

"At the cost of his marriage."

"You did not take that from him, so it is unhealthy to take responsibility."

"I know, I know.  Truly unwell of me.  Should I be under observation now?"

"You are, Castellan," Parmak smirked.  "But you can get a second opinion from Doctor Bashir this evening, if you feel you need one."

"I will not have a thing prepared to say to him."

"That's best sometimes, isn't it?"

"I could have written to him years ago," Garak said, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.  "I could've arranged transport to the station and visited him a-and... and then been a terrible burden on his family in _person_."

"Elim, you were not _ready_. And you _must_ take his family situation out of this; you are not to blame."

"I am, solely," Garak insisted.

"Did you not listen to his letters the last time I read them?  And my replies? Did you _not_ memorize every word?  I know you better, Elim, you _must've_."

Garak had, in fact, done exactly as Parmak outlined, and hung his head low, like a guilty hound might tuck its tail between its legs.  Setting aside his own cup, Parmak reached out for Garak's, rubbing Garak's knee as he passed it.

"More tea, dear?" Parmak asked.

"Please."

As Parmak took up both cups and stood, elbows creaking, empty cups nestled to his chest, Garak stopped him and took his place.

"And all of this," Garak narrated, as he walked into the kitchen, "all these years - even if you _have_ known my condition more clearly than I can express - you and I have been intimate while I imagined another man..."

"Elim, please," Parmak said, from the other room.  "I am not bothered by that, I've told you. He did not appear in my absence; you saw both of us, together."

"And that's better, I suppose...?"

"It's perfectly fine, dear."

"That remains to be seen."

Garak fiddled with a bottle of nectar, which Parmak enjoyed in his tea.  He had to twist the cap to a precise opening width, ensuring Parmak would receive the perfect portion.  With this done, he stirred his own cup, then Parmak's, and oversaw the steam happily, as it rose in thick, aromatic curls.  For ease of motion, because Garak refused to spill a single drop onto the heirloom carpets that adorned their stone castle, Garak shepherded the cups onto a tray, with a packet of wafers between them, and prepared to return to the living room.

It was at this point that Bashir arrived, in the flesh, in the hollow of their front entryway, signalling the door by calling out his name.  

Garak's wrist faltered around the weight of the tray, and he feared he might drop it, or that he would stumble and fall, himself.  Before he could do any of this, he rushed into the cabinet again, and prepared a third cup of redleaf tea. He could hear Parmak creaking and shuffling along to the door, opening it and welcoming Bashir inside.  Again, even with both wrists, Garak struggled to pick up the tray. He had to close his eyes and swallow firmly to ground himself before trying a third time. His reality, and therefore his truth, was about to become greatly altered.  Mental upheaval was a lot to prepare for, more than any number of frosted wafers could provide.

He was attentive when he returned to the sitting area, placing the tray on a table before allowing himself to take a proper look at Doctor Bashir.  The years had been kind to him; Garak found him looking exactly as the image had, in its prime. Exactly as Garak remembered Bashir, himself. He had not arrived in a uniform, out of respect, but Garak could see, even from across the room, that he had also allowed for the growth of his hair and beard, for several weeks at least.

"Julian, I..."

"...resigned," Bashir supplied for him, grinning in a wicked way Garak found ridiculous, but tasteful in context.  "It's good to see you too, _Elim_."  

"...am _profoundly_ sorry," Garak continued.

"That's all right," Bashir said, waving his hand and taking the extra cup, which Parmak silently offered him, "I ought to be flattered."

"Are you?" Garak was genuinely unsure.

"I could've visited sooner, myself.  There, we're even."

"You were busy," Parmak said, for everyone's benefit.

Gradually, Bashir surrendered to a nod, trying to vocalize his sentiment about his family, how they did not occupy every millisecond of his time - no matter how much he loved them, how they could have traveled with him if the circumstances demanded it, how...

How often he had thought about Garak, too.

He did not say anything else.  Instead, he swallowed down the rest of his tea before shoving aside the cup, standing, and surging forward to take Garak in his arms.  He mumbled a constant apology, in case he was holding on too tightly, but he could not stop stroking Garak's hair or nuzzling his cheek or rubbing his back.

"I should've known sooner," Bashir said, vaguely, when he forced himself to break away, "I should've figured it out the first time Kelas brought it up.  Hell, before that, when you took months to even _read_ my communiques.  I was worried you were upset with me."

Garak came to sit beside him on the couch as he vented, hoping to offer a calming presence.  

"Do you know what?" Garak said, "I was.  I was upset with the mirage I made of you for things it had done.  And all this supposition should be saving us a good deal of trouble, if we proceed carefully..."

Bashir chuckled and shook his head, in readily-accepted defeat.

"Oh, Ezri said it was all quite simple.  But she means it the same way you do, Elim."

"I don't resent her, not for a moment," Garak clarified, picking at a conversational petal Bashir from a flower Bashir had not yet plucked, "I am, in fact, grateful and..."

"And I share both of those feelings, don't worry," Bashir said.  "I love her..."

He paused, omitting 'passionately' this time.  It had always followed, in the past, whenever _anyone_ asked him or doubted him.  It worked its way into their daily lives, their bedtime wishes and morning greetings and every correspondence in between.  He mourned it, to himself.

"But... she was right about a lot of things, and all of us have been dealing with the same problem you have, Elim.  More or less. It's just... taken a few years to get everyone all lined up, ready to jump, together."

"Jump?" Parmak asked, quietly.

"Jump," confirmed Bashir.  "Ezri has her transport to Trill in the morning to meet Lenara, and then Nerys is bringing the girls down next week, if they're welcome, and... and you two, and myself..."

"Julian," Garak began softly, reaching for his hand again. "Of course they're welcome, and so are you."


End file.
